


The One That Got Away

by Fantine_Black



Category: Jessica Jones (TV), X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Cerebro, Charles in a Wheelchair, Charles is a Professor, Charles-centric, Crossing Timelines, Ethics, Gen, Manipulation, Medical Torture, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Physical Disability, Post-X-Men: Apocalypse (2016), Slurs, With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 01:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11430435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantine_Black/pseuds/Fantine_Black
Summary: So why hasn't anyone contacted Charles Xavier about Kilgrave?





	The One That Got Away

Dying, Charles Xavier mused, had many disadvantages. Even temporarily. It made one overlook things that oughn’t be overlooked.

And now there was a mind controlling killer on the loose.

Someone might at least have sent a memo _._

He put Cerebro down and zoomed back to his study. His back was playing up; it might be time for a little meditation.

Or self-flaggelation.

He sighed. Better put the kettle on.

He stared at the furiously bubbling water, not unlike his mental state, and tried to caution himself. Try not to come to any rush conclusions; those were usually wrong.

Evidently, a part of his brain sneered.

Still. The girl, Jessica, he genuinely might have missed. He did pick up on mutants younger than twelve, but generally decided not to pursue those links. And his future self had not shown him anything about her, either, which had made him believe that Jessica had not wanted to join him before.

(Sometimes he regretted that the only one he could discuss his strange parallel lives with was Logan. He was a good lad, but not a deep thinker, and disliked dwelling on memories, espcially conflicting ones.)

The boy, Luke, his future self had known about, mostly because he’d shown himself to be a capable fighter against the Sentinels. But there were no Sentinels to fight, now, and did Luke really need his attention? He was tough, true, but if anything, that was an advantage for a young city boy…

He could hear Erik scoffing in his head.

Fine, yes, he’d been cherry picking, just as Erik always said. When it came right down to it, these kids’ mutations bored him. Their secondary mutations, too, were better called enhancements: skin was _supposed_ to be a barrier, and almost anyone could jump, high or not. There was little there to tickle his scientific fancy.  

If only the same were true about the Thompson boy…

He couldn’t be certain; of course not. Kevin was no mutant – he was a _mutate,_ made, not born, similar to the Parker boy. Which meant, of course, that Cerebro wouldn’t pick up on him unless Charles specifically searched.

(Which he hadn’t.)

Besides, Kevin Thompson could be long dead.

Should be dead…

A searing pain shot through his spine, just like that day, twenty-three years ago. He’d overexerted himself, then. He certainly had in London, rolling around near Hyde Park, trying to find a cabbie.

It was a ridiculous idea. He should have arranged for a driver, like he had in Birmingham.

But he’d been young here, and he desperately wanted a sense of that, a freer, simpler time.

“Oi! Gimp man!”

A young lad, spiked purple hair, purple scarf, leather jacket. Sly smile, cunning eyes. Charming, if he wanted to be.

Infuriating if he didn’t.

Charles looked at him. At home, young people treated him with the utmost respect, but that was because they knew him. It wasn’t innate; not anymore. To strangers, that’s what he was – lesser, second rate; there to be scoffed at, ignored or belittled. Money could shield, but only to a certain extent. The city, the very world was not designed for the likes of him: littered with obstacles as to make the simplest things impossible. He felt the drain on his body, even his powers.

But especially his patience.

“You will address me as ‘Professor’.”

The boy snorted. “Professor gimp man, sir.”

He could almost see it, almost understand what those Thompsons had been trying to do. To shield their child, and others, from untimely death; to save him from a lifetime of frustration, humiliation and ostracism. From boys like these.

Pity they chose to torture him to do it.

“I think you owe me an apology, young man.”

He hadn’t, incidentally, needed to use his powers to know how these children had felt, he’d seen it all in Erik: the pain, fear, the sense of ultimate betrayal. Do no harm: that still had to be said.

And not only that. Erik had once told him that the worst thing Shaw had done was to _console_ him. Rocking him to sleep after killing his mother. Dressing his sores, kissing his brow – it was soul crushingly awful, longing for comfort from the one who had tortured him, but his body ached for every scrap –

“Hey! Pay attention to me!”

His shields had been up, of course – this was Hyde Park, for one, and he’d really wanted to be alone regardless. But he must have subconsciously lowered his defences, as now, the thoughts of bystanders came flooding in:

_He always does that, silly dog!_

_I hope she sleeps, there’s so much laundry._

_They have to promote me now, Nick’s said as much –_

And, from the back of his skull:

_Pay attention to that man._

Charles nearly snorted. Only an adolescent’s hyper inflated sense of proportion could make him describe this lad with that epithet. He looked more like an overgrown ringworm than a man, that ridiculous purple – wait, what?

That thought wasn’t his.

His heart soared. An undiscovered telepath – never mind how - of Jean’s age – o dear, how lonely he must have been, and what a delight it would be to have a student, a proper student, for Jean to practice with…

“Look at me, now!”

He felt it again, no more than an afterthought, and he had to stop himself from sending out _Easy, I’m standing right here;_ there might be some kind of accomplice the boy was trying to communicate with, he’d done it for Erik, hadn’t he, himself? It was a hard habit to get out of in any case, Emma Frost never managed, and they couldn’t all be as lovely as Jean –

But there was nothing else, no hint, sense of a welcome, connection – no more than with any other person, human or no. The only thing he felt was a strange sense of assault, as if he had the flu – not enough for any voice to really pierce him, but enough to have to work a little more at keeping his defences up. (When he was sick, he often didn’t bother, but took Diazepam and slept it off).

Now the boy was getting despondent. “Eyes on me!”

So he did, also sending out the softest touch, a greeting – enough to go unnoticed by the average human, but loud and bloody clear for a telepath.

Nothing. Not even the boy’s soft whine. Except the whole street was staring at them, heads turned, running into each other.

 _Go on, there’s nothing to see,_ he sent out, but got an agonised chorus of _Must look no have to look_ so he followed up with _You’ll forget this and go on with what you’re meant to be doing_ , which was a moderately strong message, but only this tricky when doing it drunk. Which was not very tricky at all, but he’d just had a long day watching vhs tapes of children getting tortured and this lad was starting to piss him off.

“That’s not how you do it,” he said to the boy when they’d gone on their way. “You must learn to focus. Honestly, you’re upsetting the whole street.”

“What...?”

 Again, something scratching at his blocks. Which were now strong enough to keep the likes of Frost at bay so he must know he wasn’t getting anywhere. “And stop that. There’s no point trying to sneak in, you have my full attention and I’m really not deaf.”

“I’m not doing anything! Idiot.”

Which – seemed true. He wasn’t doing anything. It was just that his very presence was making Charles’ skin crawl.

Hang on...

“What’s your name?”

“Shut up! Give me your wallet!”

A strange silence fell. Then, from all around him, people were rushing in on the boy to give him their wallets. Charles froze them.

“Do you want to get yourself killed?”

A smile played on the boy’s face. “Not bad, gimp man.”

“I'm giving you exactly one chance to back off.”

He frowned. “Sod you.”

And so Charles broke in. It was laughably easy – the boy had neither spine nor principals, nor great mental agility – in fact, he had no special abilities at all. The one thing he had was a defect – his body chemistry was strangely off balance, weakening people’s defences to stimuli, effectively wearing them down –

The boy was a walking disease.

And if this had happened to Moira, or virtually anyone else, so much could have yet been salvaged, turned to good, but this Kevin was a nasty piece of work, and…

Charles lowered his head into his hands. He’d been so tired, mentally, physically – he’d only travelled to Birmingham because he wanted to be a person for once, not an ex-host for malignant deities who couldn’t keep a man or woman by his side to boot. Erik had left, still sick with grief, and Moira had called him a rapist and the best man she’d ever known in the same sentence before leaving not three weeks later. He’d been busy rebuilding all and any infrastructure besides, whether with a crew of X-Men or by sending out donations – it hadn’t done too much good, but it had been his responsibility (and Moira’s and Erik’s for raising and aiding En Sabah Nur but he refused to dwell on his feelings on that). He’d wanted to be a geneticist for three seconds and help – but were humans actually worth helping, those who’d torture their own children so they wouldn’t have to suffer the grief of their death? Who’d rob men in wheelchairs? Who’d sacrifice their own for mutant gods, and who’d let this – this abomination roam free on the streets?

A knock on his door. “Professor?”

Her strong mind was like a balm. “Jean? Darling, come in.”

She opened the door and rushed over to his side. “You were projecting really hard. Did something go wrong with Cerebro?”

“No. Not quite.” He swallowed. “May I offer you some tea?”

“I’ll make it.” She squeezed his hand, then reached for the china. When sorting through teabags, she sent him:

_That man, Kilgrave. What happened?_

He cleared his throat. “May I – may I show you?”

She nodded, and he did – how he’d wiped out any initiative that wasn't in Kevin Thompson's short-term interest, any desire at all to form an attachment to other people.

Jean looked at him quizzically.

 _I cannot instil what isn’t_ _there_ , he said. _At least potentially. So_ _I thought I’d contain him until he ran himself into the ground._

Jean looked at him, slightly shocked. "You could have taken him in."

Take  _that_ __- the thought still made him sick - into his home, to his kids, to her?

"I could have handled him. You'd taught me how."

He bit his lip. “Of course. I’m such a hypocrite.”

“It's not too late to act."

"Jean, I got people killed."

"You don't know that." She sat down next to his chair. “And you could still help her. Jessica. And other mutates.”

He shook his head. "Others, perhaps. But the last thing Jessica Jones needs is a white Englishman telling her what to do.”

“So what's the plan?"

He stroked her hand. "Look out for her, Jean, would you?"

She went white. "You know I don't protect, Professor. I - I fuck things up."

"That'll be right up her street." He looked at her.  _I trust you in this dearest. Much more than myself._

She shook her head.  _You lost hope. Once. You're allowed to._

"I'm really not." He sighed. "Could you fetch Hank? Cerebro needs tweaking. And I'll have to contact Shield about expanding our curriculum.” Then he smiled.

"McCoy University for Gifted Adults. Has a nice ring to it, wouldn't you say?"

 

~Fin~


End file.
